Dave Ballantine wanted to get out of Florida. He was tired of all the heat and thought someplace cold, like the Rocky Mountains, and all those ski-bunnies might help him get a grip. It was a good plan until those south Miami dope fiends killed his girlfriend, beat him half to death and left him for dead. Six months later and Dave could walk again and he discovered something about himself he never knew before. He could truly hate someone with the idea of meticulously killing them. Good old Dave, the Florida beach bum and all-around-nice-guy got his hands on a Colt 1911 .45 and discovered he could shoot pretty good, too. Good old Dave was about to go on a vengeance ride like some Old West cowboy transplanted to the silky land of palm trees, string bikinis and some really nasty drug dealers who are about to learn that Dave was the wrong guy to piss off.